The Narrow Crossroad

I stand there, at the crossroads of what used to be and what may become. The lettering on the signs signifying the actual names of the roads were flaking away in the strong, misty wind. But in a cliché, symbolic way, that is exactly where I am, an unknown location at a confused intersection. I’m just waiting for an answer; I walked all day for what? A revelation, hoping somehow I would figure out the meaning to life? I already know why I’m here; I know the answer to my nonverbal question. The asphalt is damp; the humid air suffocates me, the fog is so dense that I feel like I could push it aside to see what was truly in front of me.  The condensation drips and collects on my face. My clothes are starting to droop and hang loosely off of my body.  The jacket I had put on in a hurry was drenched, the zipper swaying back and forth from the relaxed material’s malleability; clink, clink, clink against the metal button on my tattered and faded jeans. I feel frail and weak, my mind is unstable, but yet, I am thinking so clearly and thoroughly. Why am I here at the end of this road? What has truly and honestly driven me to this point? It doesn’t even matter anymore. I know why I’m here.

I look at my hands; the hands that would take that weren’t theirs to take. But it must be done. They are shaking. Am I cold? Raising them both out in front of me, examining them, I note that they are pink, raw, shriveled. The skin right above my bitten nails was peeling off, irritated from the constant gnawing. I am so tired.

Water starts to fall from my face, no longer from just the misty air. The tears stream down in a trail from my tear ducts to the corners of my mouth, leaving a warming sensation in the process. I am literally drowning in my own sorrow; all of this haze was making it incredibly difficult to breathe. Mascara is surely following my tear path, running down and gathering together just underneath my distended red eyes. Wet hair clings to the edges of my face, occasionally a strand or two into my line of stupefied sight. I’ve reached my limit.

I can now feel the sharp edged object outlined in my suede jacket pocket. Thinking about my failing and loveless life I know that I did in fact find my answer in coming here, to this deserted juncture. I grab the cold and slightly moist handle, knowing full and well what the consequences that was to be followed would consist of, or so I thought. Am I doing this out of desperation or curiosity; desperate to leave and find something new and to start over, or curious as to what comes after this life?

Looking at the blade I can see my deranged reflection, Jesus, I looked like hell. I know what I’m going to do next. My mind goes blank. No more thoughts. The fear and anticipation leave my soul as I make one swift motion, determined. Reality hits me simultaneously as the sharp edge does. My stomach shrivels into one giant knot; a pain in my side emerges. I fall to my knees, clutching my abdomen and pressing on my wound; attempting to compress the blood impulsively. I become hypersensitive to everything that surrounds me. My actions are no longer voluntary but just purely last fight I had within me. Somehow I end up on my stomach, endeavoring to crawl forward. One hand slowly reaches in front of me; I note the bright red sticky substance stained on my skin. Blood traces my every movement, dancing in the water collected on the road. The smell is nauseating, like a thousand pennies have been melted into an iron pot. I can hear my breathing becoming heavier by the moment. I stop trying to move; slowly sinking my head to rest on the ground. Through my blurred vision I look up to see three large black birds perched on a power line, watching me. They always stare with those vacant eyes. Do they not know that it was that look that brought me to this point? I become lightheaded; my body is quivering, so cold. And even now I can still see their eyes, despite that mine are forever closed.